“Spam, Desensitized, Death, Mourning, Dog-Killer Joke, Crows…” 2021/11/14

“Spam, Desensitized, Death, Mourning, Dog-Killer Joke, Crows…”

2021/11/14

This entire thing started while cooking some spam for lunch, dinner, and tomorrow’s breakfast. Don’t worry, I do have an option of pasta but I usually cook big batches of food for quick reheats. Comes with the territory of living alone. Food prep.

Yesterday, I was talking to a coworker about I know I am desensitized with death to a certain degree. Sure, I may feel uncomfortable at scenes but it is not the morbidity that grosses me out. It is the thought that connections are severed and unless the living is prepared, they are devastated. 

I recalled that time when I was a child and I watched my puppy killed in front of me. I was trying to coax it from exiting under the car (it likes to sleep there to the cement’s cool surface). But it was still young and its notions of danger were still inexistent. I watched it try to wake and at the moment the car began to go on reverse, it was startled. It ran right into the tires and I watched as it squirmed and cried and a crack and then, silence.

This was not the first time I saw something die. I watched too many NatGeo documentaries about hunters and prey, and all that brutal orchestrated predatory hunts and scavenging of vultures plucking out entrails with blood oozing on the savannah ground. But at that moment, I think I may have thought that if I didn’t coax him to wake up, he would have been okay. He was in the center and the car would have just rolled away without even hitting him. He was a puppy, and yes, we always allowed our pets to roam freely within the front yard which was where the car parks as well. Anyway, the scene never turned into a nightmare like those stories would say it would. But I do remember it and I wish I had more chances to play and hug him before it happened. It felt like a connection broke before it could strengthen.

There’s this archetype character in stories that seems to be a magnet for death and disaster. They end up having low self-esteem and suicidal thoughts. At a young age, I never liked the thought of suicide, because it is a selfish act to leave those behind. But this was like how mourning felt as well. Even when a person dies of natural death, those left behind are the ones to suffer. Financially and emotionally.

I had a lot of pet dogs throughout my life (some aren’t mine but since we live in the same household, they felt like mine and I felt responsible for them too), but it wasn’t my fault they died. A lot got sick. Hagridge ate a frog and got poisoned. Some were even sent off without my knowledge or consent (or maybe I felt my consent wouldn't matter). Mugen was the best boy, strong and stalwart, and the fastest, but even he was to spared from contracting heartworm. And I would hold him on my lap whenever I could and play with his flappy ears and take videos of him in his sleep until I had to study far from home and hear news of his death.

And yet, why did it leave a big impression when close people began to make it a joke that I was a dog-killer? Imagine, being a kid and these close people would often chide you about it. Imagine, being already an adult and they sometimes bring it up as a joke. “blah blah blah…. How many dogs have you killed already?” (Translated).

So, yes, to a degree I have been desensitized.

I never did cry like those theatrical crying ladies when my dad died. I had tears, but I wasn’t wailing. I tried to hold dearly on him one last time before letting go with a defeated gasp. Maybe I was broken after all. Or so I should have spiraled into those dark thoughts. But I didn’t. I could see the sadness in the eyes of the people around me. It’s not the “I didn’t want to look weak or sad in front of them” either. It wasn’t the “I need to be strong for my mom now.” Oh, and I have stopped saying that as well because why would you think such words would comfort those who are left behind? Especially those who have lost loved ones. Why take away the moment for them to be vulnerable and force them to be strong?

I never cried for Dada because he was gone. I cried because I felt that he, too, would give anything to be there to comfort my Mom. And to this day, I still believe that I’m not scared of dying for my personal fear, but that if I die, I will cause my Mom to grieve once more. So, I turned into a hypochondriac.

I do not cry for the dead because it feels like I want to be tied down to the past. But my Dada had been a good father, the best! And he made sure to prepare me for the future. I think that’s why, really. I think it was because I didn’t have any regrets, that I fully cherished each moment with him, and did not feel so lost at a present and a future without him, that I didn’t shout any frustrations or grief. It was also because I already knew how fleeting life could be, and when it happens, it is out of our hands. But would my Dada have wanted me to grieve so much? Or would he have preferred that I look forward to the future instead?

It’s not a secret that when I was young, I could see and sense spirits. A shaman was once taken to our house to do some shaman things when I was so sick. And people with the so-called “third eye” have also approached me and told me about a certain entity with me. “That's my brother,” I would reply. “He keeps me safe.” How many accidents have left me with just a scratch, instead of a hospitalization? How many times have friends or acquaintances said they got scared of the room I’m in (just coz technically, in a dorm, it’s not my room per se, it’s just a rented room) and got the shivers and fled? (I’m so sorry for one older friend whom I later learned felt terrified every night and after three months, decided to leave the dorm altogether. Something about someone standing near my bed at night, falling marbles, and you know how those predators would look unkindly to threats while using their bodies to protect their kin? That kinda description.)

I once dreamt of life going through an endless loop until I decided that the shadow that always lurks in the corner was getting annoying so I shouted at it while staring it down. Then, the loop ended and I was really standing by the front door while it rained outside. And as I looked down on my phone screen, all 26 times I tried to call my friend did register. 1 time each time the loop happened as soon as I reached the front door. There was hearsay that someone died in that apartment. But there weren’t any ominous feelings after that rage-filled outburst and because I just had enough of having to wake up and going down the stairs and out into the rain when there’s no power and all my flatmates were out having a blast in the cinema.

I once dreamt of a family member dying, and days later learned they died on the same night as the dream. I also dreamt of a wake, a vigil, and a visitor. These all happened in real life three months later when Dada died, and the wake looked exactly like the dream and the visitor came with the exact clothes. I read the rest of the book to Dada that night, sitting next to the coffin as I wait for us to go home and sleep. He was reading one of the books I bought recently but never got to finish it.

Sometimes, I dream that Dada and I are cooking and eating sinigang. Oh and we visit mom back home. So I never really ended up missing him since he likes to appear in my dreams. I pray for him every day.

Wait, where is this going again? Oh right, desensitized.

I guess, there have been many occasions growing up that led to experiences with the supernatural and death, that I am desensitized to death to a certain degree. But it is not death I fear, but the grief I will cause to those left behind. It wasn’t long ago that I ended up making a joke, myself, saying I’ve killed a lot of dogs in my life. After all, that was a running joke to some of these close people I respect. So it must be a joke worth saying. Of course, I know it’s not. And it’s about time they learn it too. (And I do still respect and love them. I also just think they have always had dark humor I can never catch on, or they may have been just immature back then).

Drago, Kali, Fly, Maxie, Marx (yes, as in Karl Marx, I dunno why I chose that but…), Xavier, Hagridge, Fried Rice (it stuck, okay?!), Mugen, Dodger. I remember all their names. The only one I couldn’t name was the puppy who died under the car. I was supposed to give him a name that day. Or maybe I forgot as soon as I saw the life fade from his eyes while he was crying out for me. Crack. The sound I heard… I can imitate if you ask me to. My coworker shivered when I did as told the story.

When Dodger got lost, I was panicking internally. I put out flyers in the neighborhood. I watched him grow into a big boy in just months. I loved hearing his barks in video calls with mom. I did not want to give him away. But for a big and powerful dog (he could break a cemented pillar if he wants to), no one who would be left behind back home (as I fly to Japan for my studies) would be able to care for him. When I stopped hearing his barks during video calls, so too did a portion of my enthusiasm for the nightly calls. If I was a dog-killer, it was Dodger who proved it wrong. He accepted me, while he bared his fangs on a person who ate dogs. It was the first time they met, yet he was enraged, pulling on the chains and pretty much ready to just kill the guy. They said Dodger could smell the lingering dog-flesh-turned-food (Azucena) on the man. But he never shied away from me, opting to cuddle, to bump on my leg, to sleep, and be calm in the car with me. He never saw the shades of red, of blood that should be piling up like a dramatic scene on my hands. I decided then, that joking about the dog-killer would not be for me. 

I’ve met a supernatural entity in Japan. It was dark and crawling from the closet. One “Our Father” and it was gone. I sprayed some holy water there the next day. It never returned.

I got told by a temple priest that I sure know a lot about the temple, more than a tourist should, or even a modern-day Japanese. He wanted me to believe that I was reincarnated from a person who lived there three hundred years ago. The place was indeed familiar, a breath of security, and a feeling of home under the soles of my feet.

A teacher from my MFA days once said I lacked angst in my short story. I didn’t have a rebellious phase, I’m sorry. I loved my family, and I felt loved. I’m not sorry. Aren’t stories supposed to reflect a bit of our life experience? Well, I’m not your typical reclusive writer with backstories the size of Mt. Everest.

Oh, but years before all that, I’ve been writing about stereotypical angsty characters, or the stereotypical fallen princes, the burdened hero, and so forth. It’s just that, when the assignment felt like it needed a closer to life (non-fantastical setting), I have no angst to grab onto at that time. Because I actually love my family, thank you very much. I had to pretend and watch overly dramatic telenovelas to find a certain theme for the missing angst that she wanted. In the end, Naruto was better. And I got more inspiration from there. Just no Justus or demonic beasts residing inside us.

I made friends with the crows of my apartment for 2 years. I leave water out for them every day. And I give them the salute whenever I see them outside. One of the crows guided me through my nightly walk to the nearby small temple because that’s where the recycling center was and trash is often taken out at night. Yesterday, a crow flew low and landed on a vending machine next to me. We made eye contact. It turned its head. I gave him the salute. It returned the gesture with a one-wing raised salute (or so I imagine it to be a salute otherwise, otherwise why raise only one wing?). It watched me continue to walk all the way to work.

So, yeah, this is something that started with cooking spam, and now I need to eat the said spam but I spent the last hour or so typing instead.

Farewell, for now, and until next time.

Keep safe and Take Care!